


All The Ease Of Breathing

by IncessantCalibration



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 21:11:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7284946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncessantCalibration/pseuds/IncessantCalibration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The campaign against the Red Templars is progressing better than anyone could have expected, confidence is renewed and Lavellan is still hopelessly in love with her sunshine-shouldered negotiator. But when Vivienne's newest party conflicts with Blackwall's relentless vigilance, words will fly, daggers will be drawn, and someone must fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All The Ease Of Breathing

**Author's Note:**

> 'Love can do much, but duty more.' - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Hands smothered in regret, she looked up at the figures in the doorway, her eyes desperately seeking faces from the silhouettes cloaked by the light behind them. They noticed, even before the smattering of blood dotting her arms like a disease, her desperate irises, those caverns of understanding, that understood all too much. She recognised them as shadows of friends, and pleaded with them to understand with her. None of them wanted to, none of them cared for it. She could not withhold the tempest in her heart,  
‘It wasn’t supposed to happen like this! It was only a game! _No one was supposed to die_.’

**Three days earlier**  
Disconcerting. That was the only possible outcome Blackwall could come to when thinking back to the blood-thirsty destruction that had just occurred. He grabbed his already blood-soaked rag from beside him and wiped away at his greaves, not really cleaning the stains, or the memories for that matter, just smearing them, diluting them with the salty water from the Waking Sea. The fight itself had not been disconcerting; instead, it was the sound an arrow made when it whistled past your ear, like a song or a lover whispering promises of ageless love, caressing with one hand, and a knife in the other. He could thank Rivani women for that image.  
‘Do you think you could be a little more careful next time, Sera?’  
‘With what, Thom Painier?’  
‘With your arrows.’  
‘Nahh, I’d much rather kill them AND watch you shit your pants, than just kill them. BORING. They move way too slow for it to be fun, gotta make my own, right?’  
The champion turned back to his rag, all the while watching as the red liquid slithered down his hands, wrenching the final remnants out. The blood always remained however, like so many other things.  
The massacre of this particular Red Templar stronghold had been easier than expected. It was part of a calculated series of attacks across the Storm Coast, to break Samson’s grip on the strategic coastline. With the Storm Coast held in Inquisition hands, the arrival of the Qunari support would be imminent. The last couple of outings, however, had been different. The Red Templars had been easing off, using less numbers, fighting with less resolve. In the beginning it was like fighting dragons, Blackwall thought, now it was more akin to nugs with confidence issues. What were they up to? Had they been drawing us in? Were they following the path-  
‘Gordon?’ She never called him Gordon, but the tone of her voice made him quickly realise it had not been the first time she had tried to attract his attention. Looking up at his leader’s figure against an ever blackening sky, he addressed her,  
‘Lady Lavellan, forgive me. I was just thinking about the attacks. Have you noticed they’ve seemed remarkably…’  
‘Simple?’  
‘Yes… I fear they may be plotting a scheme to-‘  
‘Gordon. Please.’  
She had said it again. Concern was written all across her face, the handwriting sketchy with sorrow, the page blotted with tears. Blackwall had seen that expression before, Maker, he had even offered it to those recruits far away from home, missing the warmth of their bed and the comfort of their mother’s embrace. And yet all the while, all the times he tried to console those who needed support, it had only made him angry, the anger that gnaws at your bones like a hungry dog. As Lavellan crouched down next to Blackwall, as easily as a schoolmaster might help a crying child, the dog returned, as ravenous as ever.   
‘You haven’t slept in days, I’ve seen the light from your barn ablaze all hours of the night. You talk about attacks at breakfast, at midday, even when we’re drinking. I haven’t seen you smile in… Have you ever smiled?’ Her tone was smooth, even natural, calming the animal inside, preventing it from snapping at the scraps of sympathy in her words. ‘Please dwell on this no more. Once we’ve packed the couple of wounded back on the carts, we’ll head for the mountain pass and home. But I don’t want to hear another thing about the doom or gloom upon the world.’  
Blackwall nodded, forcing into a smirk not fitting of his face, as he met her glare for the first time. As soon as the Inquisitor turned away, his sunken eyes, bedded by creviced bags, betrayed his acceptance. He promptly stood up and cast his rag into the bellowing sea.

 

The arrival home of the marauding party usually drew a crowd back at Skyhold. The resting soldiers commonly amassed in the courtyard, looking nervously amongst the horses and the carts to see if their friends had been among the favoured of Andraste. Yet, on this occasion, it was deserted.  
The Inquisitor leapt from her steed and strode up the stone steps, her shadow from the full moon hovering over the mountains, barely able to keep up.  
‘Ah, young love,’ commented Dorian, watching as his ferocious leader succumbed in the arms of Josephine like a lost kitten rediscovered by its owner. Soon the rest of the party, unsaddled and unburdened, slid casually up the grand staircase and became swallowed by the inviting light of the great hall. All except one. Far from unburdened, Blackwall moved across the empty courtyard, his lonely, all-conquering thoughts his only companion as even the moon slipped away behind a cloudy gauze. He began to unbutton his tarnished garments, finding the tiny buttons hard work with such large, calloused hands, as his eyes flickered over a perfectly white letter standing to attention among his barnyard effects. Though the handwriting was whipping across the pristine paper like a rapier in a blizzard, it held confidence, each letter stroke purposeful, defined, strong. A smile of annoyance leapt across his face as the only possible author entered the champion’s mind.

_Dearest Blackwall/Thom/Beardylocks,_  
As you well know it is coming up to the Orlesian Festival period, and in honour of such a vibrant occasion and our inability to attend an actual Val Royeaux gathering, I have decided to host a traditional murder mystery event here in the castle grounds. If you would be a darling and actually turn up, that would be most wonderful. And please wear something suitable for the Inquisition, and not for a downtrodden Grey Warden.  
All my love,  
Vivienne 

The smile lingered, not now with annoyance, but with genuine affection. Just as he was allowing himself to be carried away by the thought of happiness, he remembered everything. The mission, the cause, his life.   
_In Peace, vigilance._  
He caught at the letter, its fragility succumbing like a moth within his grasp, and cast the letter away behind his shoulder. He stopped still. He turned to find the letter suspended in the centre of the room, hovering like the moth resurrected. The lack of a sound of the letter crashing to the floor caught his attention, and now it was not the letter but the figure of Madame du Fer, dressed in cream and sapphire, who commanded his gaze.  
‘Little regard for my letters, I see.’  
‘Forgive me Vivienne, I did not know you were there.’  
‘Indeed my dear, I full well know that. It would take a resolve beyond even yours to cast away a personal invitation from a member of an Orlesian court in front of the host.’ The page magically unfurled showing the signature, driving the guilt further into the Champion’s heart, before floating to the ground. ‘Especially one with a staff in her hand. I dare say you have been doing a fair bit of forgiving in the past couple of days. You were late for dinner last night, I overheard you talking to the Herald earlier and now you are tossing my invites across rooms.’  
Vivienne worked in opposites. She slunk her way across the barn with the subtlety of a cat but the directness of a bull, and spoke with the sweetness of a courtesan, but the candour of a killer. Blackwall decided this was the stem of her difficulty, the very reason why so many struggled to handle her sharp personality. She was the rose and the thorn.   
‘It is not because I don’t want to, I’ve just been occupied recently. With things.’  
‘Oh Thomas, are you having fun stating the blindingly obvious, tonight? I can see all of this, however, and that is precisely the reason why I invited you. Normally, I would have allowed the natural excitement of the event to disseminate down to everyone, but I thought you required a personal touch.’  
Her words suggested comfort, but her eyes remained fixed on his, like a pin through a butterfly. She lightly sighed, before continuing, ‘What on earth are you worried about anyway?’  
Something inside him alighted. It had not been until now that he realised that no one, no one at all, had been interested in what had been occupying him, preying on him in the lonely hours. Thom feverishly shuffled across the barnyard space, also not realising that he had not yet moved since the enchantress’ entrance, and flicked through papers, scouting reports, scraps of maps, before thrusting them towards her.   
‘Ever since the attacks on the Storm Coast have been getting so simple, I have been thinking about why. Why haven’t they bolstered their numbers, held the more strategic positions and forfeited the others, or at least watched us and our movements. And then I realised, they _have_. What if they are planning a strike, something closer to home? They know they can’t win, but if they make a statement, a statement that shook our foundations, they might still rattle us for the future.’  
‘Watching us?’ replied Vivienne.  
‘I reckon they have been committing numbers to following us up to Skyhold, and looking at our paths. Then they might be able to cause, maybe, an ambush or cut off our supply lines, maybe, even our commands.’  
‘My darling boy…’ she said, wearily.  
Seeing her sceptical face, he grew more agitated.  
‘If Samson was able to harm one of the inner circle, it would be enough of a victory for him to forgive losing the Storm Coast.’  
‘But Skyhold is a fortress, sweet one, we have scouts everywhere, soldiers lining the mountain pass and the walls.’  
‘All it takes is a man and a dagger. I have seen what one can do.’  
The abrupt silence that followed cut through the both of them. In his voice Madame du Fer could hear the fear that had stolen him and taken him away in to the shadows and the recesses of his paranoid mind. He was vigilant, yes, but vigilance is a carefully handled gift. She knew it was one step away from obsession, which was another from madness.  
Feeling like she was teetering on the brink of belief with him, like two souls on a cliff edge ready to fall, he started, softly, ‘You of all people must understand that this must be taken seriously. I appeal to you to understand.’  
But a mistress of the Game knew better than to be coddled by pleading.  
‘My dear, let me ask you a question. When was the last time you slept?’  
‘That is completely irrelevant, my lady.’  
‘Is it? Because in my experience when the bedraggled and exhausted come running up to me in my office thrusting manically researched papers around and telling me I’m not safe in my beds, I tend to lean on the side of my own thoughts, not theirs. You would have us throw it all away, to pull out of the Storm Coast through fear of a single man making it past our borders, our soldiers, our walls, just as a much needed victory is at hand.’  
 _In War, victory._  
She continued, unmercifully, ‘I have seen war claim men, seen it drive them mad. I know you are a soldier, but you are not a Grey Warden and this war is pure chaos, if we only allow it. I will not lose you to it.’  
Like a bell toll, her words rang around the room, softening on the ear as the echo fell away. She placed the papers on the nearest table and turned to the entrance, looking over her plumed shoulder at the soldier.  
‘Please come to the party, my dear. It would be enough for me, let what we are doing be enough for you.’   
The flames in the barnyard flickered as her silky stride swept her away. It took only a moment of brief, silent, disbelieving inaction, before Blackwall grabbed his sword and smashed everything in sight.

**Night before the party**  
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather I stayed, Helmara?’  
‘Just go home will you! One of us might as well get some rest before the archdemon herself comes down in the morning. ’  
The other chef laughed and passed out of the kitchen saying his goodbyes to the petite elven girl, still hunched over the hundreds of pies lain out in rows like soldiers ready for inspection. He knew she was right, the moment the sunny child peeked its eyes over the mountainous fence, the work would begin, a restless maelstrom of barking orders and flying pastries ending sometime early the next morning. Madame du Fer had asked for absolute professionalism on top of an order of food that made even the Iron Bull wince at its extravagance and sheer scale, which had only been approved by the Inquisitor on the grounds that Vivienne’s household footed the bill. As he closed the door behind him, Helmara turned her attention to a half full bowl of batter over the other side of the room. But before her hand could grasp it, her eyes were caught by the movement of a shadow across the window behind.  
‘Cole?’ whispered Helmara, her hand now switching to the knife lying on the table.  
Cole was often known for his creeping around at night, but he was more often found on the castle walls this late at night. The flame that had betrayed the figure outside flicked restlessly, and from the silence, littered with the chef’s rampaging thoughts, came action. The door flew open, a gust flushing through the room, causing the elf to grab the knife and rush towards the open doorway in a frenzy of fear.  
But nothing. Nothing was there, just an open doorway now filled by a nervous wreck with shaking hands.  
‘Brave. But foolish,’ came a voice from behind her, as the course cloth of a sack enveloped her sight with blackness, quickly followed by fell blow, washing over her and claiming her consciousness. 

**Day of the party**  
‘Helmara, if I still find you still in here with pastry on your finge-’  
Inside was simple, unadulterated anarchy.   
Chefs running across rooms, the fire of ovens wafting spontaneous plumes of smoke into the crowded chamber, the sounds of cutlery being hastily bundled together. And at the top of the table, the motionless figure of Vivienne, an island in a culinary storm.  
‘I presume you missed my message handed out this morning to arrive _before_ midday?' And like an island spent too long in a storm, her expression bore the front of the tempest around her. ‘As did your elven friend, doubtlessly.’  
‘Helmara isn’t here, my lady?’ Confusion struck him like lightning. She was never late.  
‘No, and apparently she failed to finish last night’s solitary task of the pies, hence the earlier start. I tell you, I never thought pies would be my undoing.’  
‘But I left her here last night to finish them.’  
If the enchantress’ face was stormy to being with, it was a fast growing into an earth-shattering cyclone. She simply held open her palms, boring her gaze into the late chef, allowing him to once more take in the disarray ensuing around them both.  
‘Now, my darling, have you too been hit by a mysterious illness of incompetence or are you planning on helping us out by doing your job?’  
The irony of the _us_ was not lost on the chef, as he went for his apron, still wandering where on earth Helmara had gone.

Slipping through the miserable throng that emptied out of the kitchen, moody and tired, the chef speedily walked out into the courtyard and into the barn at the opposite end. The clouds were sleepily drifting over Skyhold, eclipsing the light of the day even faster, like a theatrical curtain ending the day’s act and promising the evening show to come. Yet, for all the dimness outside, the barn itself was in full glow, and furiously warm, the intense fire causing him to turn his face away from the heat. His eyes scanned the room, and from the dancing movement of the shadows emerged his target.  
‘Can I help you with something?’  
There was something in Blackwall’s voice, hoarseness, from all the arguing inside his head. His eyes sagged sorry down his face, but a lack of sleep does that to you, thought the chef. He finally stopped assessing the man he was after, a husk of the one he was expecting to find, and began to explain the story of the night and the morning, alarm flecked throughout. With each sentence he could see the body of the soldier in front of him rising, the mind committed to protection, the soul destined on righteousness building, slowly building. Finally he completed his tale of his missing friend,  
‘And now I do not know where she is, for she has not been in all day… something is not right.’  
The words were like spurs in Blackwall’s flanks, the rampant stallion bursting free of its reigns and into full effect. He grabbed his sword by the fire, hot to the touch, and the shield by the door, and ran out into the dimness. The chef shouted out for him to remember his formal dress, pointing at the bundle on the bed, crowned with a fancily scrawled note. But Blackwall did not stir from his path, not looking back, not even once.

Blackwall burst into the open hall, not out of breath as even he might have expected, but focused, his task firmly set in his head. It was gratifying, to have clarity when all that had encompassed his mind had been cluttering thoughts. If he had not been so determined to make it to the Herald, he might have afforded himself a smirk at the irony. His greatest fear was the fear of attack, and yet, now it was real, he was free. The Inquisitor was stationed at the alternate end, alongside the host, Vivienne, and Dorian, her newest clutch, as Jojo was talking excitedly with some officials, probably about the evening’s murder mystery game. Each stride brought a further glare as the dresses and tunics turned one by one to see the stained shirt of the imposter Thom Rainier interrupt their affair. How rude.  
As he approached Lavellan, he could clearly see the look she had hidden back at the Storm Coast, the one gilded with concern, but stronger now, almost forming into outright worry.  
Vivienne had no need to hide her emotions, because, for all the world, she was pissed.  
‘My lady, this evening must be cancelled.’  
Really _very_ pissed.  
‘Oh Thom…’ Lavellan’s eyes scanned his, searching for meaning where all she could see was madness.  
‘One of the chefs has gone missing from last night. It may be linked to my fears about the Red Templars.’  
The blue bodice of Madame du Fer swept forward, the dark skin paling somewhat under the shame and preposterous entry of Blackwall.  
‘And it absolutely had no links to her drinking too much from the kitchen stores, or feeling “unwell” right before a full day at work?’  
Vivienne was often totally in control of her emotions, a cold-hearted child of The Game, but the snobbery of her reply had left even Lavellan staring at her. Instead of authority, she was a mess of nerves, and only then did Blackwall realise that, after all this time, he was not the only one bringing his terrors to reality. Vivienne was in front of everyone, losing her grip on an evening she had created, and her edges were jagged and exposed like shards from a shattered mirror. ‘The evening cannot be cancelled.’  
The words were faltering in her lips.  
Lavellan turned back to the armed soldier in front of her.  
‘Gordon,’ she had said it again, ‘what evidence do you have that these thoughts are tied?’  
He searched in his mind for a scrap of truth that he could use to justify his argument, but he felt like he was trying to catch blood in water. There was no evidence, only suspicion. His silence spoke volumes.  
Josephine returned and engaged herself with a brooding Vivienne, and an intrigued Dorian, as the Inquisitor finally spoke out loud and with purpose to the curious audience of blank faces, overlooking the Grey Warden in front of her,   
‘The evening will continue as normal! There is nothing of concern, please listen now to Josephine who will explain the rules.’  
Her gaze rested upon Blackwall one final time. It held within it one word, as ferocious as a lion’s roar but in the silence of an owl’s flight.  
 _Stop._  
As instructed by their leader, the partygoers began to congregate near the front, allowing Thom Rainier a moment, before he turned and moved against the gathering. This time, however, not a single person had their eyes on him, and once he broke through, he passed silently and alone out of the hall of ignorance.

* * *

If footsteps could have been destined, they would have fallen as such. It had taken longer than expected but, finally, what he had been waiting for was in front of him. The target sat completely unaware as he took stock of her frame and size. He had been told what she looked like, petite, blond, and with all the trademarks of the elf. He wanted desperately to go straight up, take her, and claim the prize. But wait, think. Traps. They were extremely clever, clever enough to evade us, they would be clever enough to have protected her. He was not often this nervous, but his lips had fallen prey to the cold air and the intensity of the discovery. How long could he wait, there was never and chance like this one, presented so open and clear. Strike, go on. Do it.

Blackwall fell out of the dark. The killer emerged into the light.  
Blackwall took grasp of the girl. The killer drew his blade at Sera.  
The girl wearily smiled, as she began to set alight. Dorian spoke his spell, allowing a bolt to leap from his staff.  
Fire surrounded Helmara, her skin enveloped in a blue flame, forcing Blackwall away. Fire surrounded the killer, his clothes swathed in a green flame, forcing him away from Sera.  
Their screams deafened the halls, and scared the old stones.

_In Death, sacrifice._

Blackwall had opened the windows, allowing the room to be cleansed of the stench of burning flesh. The cold night breeze had punished the sconces on the central pillars, leaving a heady mix of smoke and grief lingering and a complete lack of light, except for the remarkably icy hue of the moon. The old soldier sat crouched like a monk of the Chantry, knees clasped together, cradling the remnants of the small girl’s frame. In the black, Blackwall had gone over and over again the complete look of hopelessness on the girl’s blindfolded face as he spotted her from the balcony above, his decision to free her before the killer returned, and that fateful touch. He held her so tight he felt like she was going to burst into flame again; his regret was the match and her innocence the spark. She was so small, smaller now her grey skin crumbled into his harsh leather gloves at every grip. To begin with he had tried to hold her to keep her together, perhaps she could still be saved, as a careless little boy crying over a porcelain cup would. Now he was holding her to crush his existence in to her, allowing himself to absorb the shame and responsibility of her life into his body. He had failed.

At this moment, Madame du Fer burst into the room, like an avenging angel on the profane earth, wielding the intoxicating mix of fury and realisation. She stood frozen, remaining for a while, witnessing a whole new crime, the image of the ragged Blackwall excepting every touch of the charred dead girl like a fresh burden, ones that he were not supposed to take. Taking two large strides, she sunk to her knees and joined the soldier in his thievery. The enchantress slid her hands underneath the body and whispered the words under her breath, so quietly, as if the stones might tell on her,   
_‘I’m so sorry.’_  
Blackwall did not have the strength to look at her, and though he would never know who the apology was directed at, he knew, in that sentence, that the rose he had seen before, thorns and all, was wilting before him.   
The room suddenly erupted into a circus of movement and furore, harsh light being the first and most unwelcome visitor. The companions accompanied it, weapons drawn, but stopped, lifeless, the very air sucked out of their lungs like death had fashioned a vacuum in the horrid event. All the while, the curtains rose and fell with all the ease of breathing.

* * *

Hands smothered in regret, Vivienne looked up at the figures in the doorway, her eyes desperately seeking faces from the silhouettes cloaked by the light behind them. They noticed, even before the smattering of blood dotting her arms like a disease, her desperate irises, those caverns of understanding, that understood all too much. She recognised them as shadows of friends, and pleaded with them to understand with her. None of them wanted to, none of them cared for it. She could not withhold in the tempest in her heart,  
‘It wasn’t supposed to happen like this! It was only a game! _No one was supposed to die_.’

* * *

The Inquisitor slipped through the courtyard lined with market stalls several days later, avoiding every nod of appreciation and salute of necessity. Cullen watched down from high on the castle walls, hands rooted behind his back. Even he, someone who had not been remotely involved in the dark nights of late, felt dirty. He could tell Lavellan felt the same. The stride that she so commonly adopted when on a mission, purposeful strides beating their way through the masses like a charging cavalry horse through lines of infantry, was somewhat subdued. It lingered slightly, not wavering, but afflicted by the shame. Shame had elongated its stay, an ill guest in the halls of Skyhold, as Morrigan had so eloquently put it. This disease of the mind had left everyone wishing for pure innocence to return, days when those not affected by the fighting would not succumb to it, like the young elven girl had, wrapped in flame.   
Smiling, Lavellan encroached the barn, feeling like she was about to drop all the sickness of the camp on to the only soul who could bear it. Maker, it was hard to smile.  
‘Thom? Are you here?’  
Appearing out of one of the darker rooms came the champion, but broader and prouder than imagined. His chest rose and fell like medals adorned it, his clothes were clean and his hands still at his sides. But most noticeably of all, his eyes locked into his leader’s. Lavellan felt pleasantly trapped, like a tight embrace from an old friend. Behind those eyes was clarity, not clouded by duty or a sense of righteousness, but an honest will to do good. Yet at what cost? He could not have swallowed all that shame, devoured all that regret, could he?   
‘Are you alright? Blackwall?’  
Lavellan’s ability to smile came easier once the corners of his mouth twitched up. After everything that had happened, the man before her was smirking.  
‘I know why you are here. And I am well, my lady. I would not have thought any different of you.’  
‘But you are… smiling?’  
The shock in her voice tickled him, causing a chuckle to rise from his broad frame.  
‘Indeed, I am. I have given the girl everything she deserved and if Andraste wills it, she should have everything required of her to go to a better place than her life here.’  
He paused for a moment, seeing the disbelief, and felt an explanation rise up, like the chuckle before, out of his chest.  
‘After you had me sent away from the party, I realised that this task was for me alone. Any intruder wouldn’t have kept her in open spaces so I started to look for Helmara in the depths and channels of Skyhold. In my wanderings, I found her. I was above her, on the balcony above the cellar and she was tied amongst the barrels. Everything about her looked so innocent, she was there, blond, so small, just as the chef had said, yet, I couldn’t risk him coming back. I thought I could,’ his eyes briefly wavered from conviction, only to flicker back in a hardened gaze, ‘protect her.’  
He looked now to the fire, which was lit despite the midday sunshine. Lavellan knew what he was going to say, but she didn’t dare utter a word. She was a chantry girl listening to the holy preacher speak the truth of the night that needed to be exorcised, for her, and for him.  
‘I touched her, and she set on fire. It must have been a protection spell.’  
Finally, it felt like the air breathed again. And now, she could speak.  
‘Dorian said as much.’ Slowly she ventured forward, trying to assess each word on the face of her guardian angel. ‘Dorian also said that once he saw you come in, that he knew, he knew there was going to be an attack. Something about the look of a man who’s got it all figured out. And once you mentioned an elven cook, he knew the killer had made a mistake earlier and matched her look to Sera.’  
At this, Blackwall turned vigorously, too quickly, and looked away again, realising that the whole horror of the night might have been avoided had Dorian spoken up for him at the party. His movements asked the question, and Lavellan moved to answer.  
‘Dorian couldn’t have said anything, otherwise the killer would have known, he needed him to come out of the shadows.’  
Blackwall looked at her, a faint flash of agreement whipped across his features and finally, closure.  
‘I know.’  
He took one deep breath, in and through, filling his chest back to its former soldierly state, like a Val Royeaux statue of an old nameless hero before moving towards the darkened room he had appeared from. Passing by Lavellan, he stopped in the doorway, his imperious back still to her.  
‘I’m ready when you are to next head out. As much as I love destroying inanimate objects, evildoers are far more gratifying. They squish better.’  
Lavellan let out a breath she didn’t realise she had been holding.  
‘And tell Vivienne, I forgive her. And so does Helmara.’


End file.
